Sweet Caroline(5)

“Look, Mrs. Atwater—”

“How long you been working here?”

“Two years.”

“And before here?”

My back stiffens. “Mrs. Farnsworth’s Landscaping & Nursery. Bookkeeping, mostly. Spread more manure-laced fertilizer than I liked, but she’s a nice lady.”

Mrs. Atwater wrinkles her nose. “Of course she is. So are you. Too nice. Before Mrs. Farnsworth, you worked for your brother when he took over Sweeney Construction after your granddaddy passed. Before that, you managed the office for your dad’s well-drilling business.”

I jam the wire in one of the wormholes that pepper the wooden desktop. “I know my own job history, Mrs. Atwater. It’s hard to say no to people in need.”

“What about your need? You think God only put you on this earth to do other folks’ chores?”

“First of all, I don’t believe God put me here for anything. Second, what’s wrong with doing other people’s chores? If more people would help out—”

“Sure, but there’s something just for you. A field you’re supposed to plow and plant—” Mrs. Atwater pinches her lips. “You know what, I’ll shut up. Who am I to judge? I’ve overstepped my bounds. Forgive me.” She rises. “What the world needs is more people like you. One who puts others above herself.”

“Don’t make me out to be a saint, Mrs. Atwater. I’m not.” The wire’s tip is stuck in one of the worm holes. I jerk it free.

“I gave up teaching to save my sanity. If I had to grade one more test . . .” She pauses at the office door, shaking her head. “But I’ll never stop encouraging my students, no matter how old they are. Just take care of yourself, Caroline. Don’t waste your potential.”

The words bounce around the crowded office, hurting my ears. “Don’t waste your potential.”

As I hear her car fire up and pull away, I glance out the small office window—the panes need washing—and muse about my unrealized potential. A creeping sensation runs over my torso and down my arms. I’m already twenty-eight. What am I going to do with my life?

Worse than dying is never having lived at all.

Early afternoon Daddy comes around and hitches my broken-down car to the back of his truck. “I’ll pick you up when I’m done with my last job.” He rests his elbow out the window of his battered blue work truck. “Henry and Cherry are coming over for dinner.”

“Yeah, Cherry said she thought they’d make it.” My brother and his wife of eight years join Dad and me for dinner once a week or so. But we’re sloppy with family traditions and lately we’ve been more on the “or so” side of things than the “once a week.”

“Posey’s cooking up something good.” Dad clicks his tongue against his teeth and fidgets. “I want to run something by you kids.”

“Yeah, like what?” Bending left, I try to see his eyes, which are focused straight ahead, out the windshield. “Don’t tell me Posey gave back your ring.”

“Here I am towing your broken-down heap to the shop and you’re poking fun at me.” He shifts the truck into gear.

“Dad, I’m teasing. You know Posey loves you.”

The truck inches forward as he eases off the clutch. “I’ll talk to you later. See you around five or half past.”

As he drives off, I catch a smile on the corners of his lips.

What are you up to, Dad?

He’s delivered a lot of news to Henry and me over the years. Most of it bad. “Mama left for good this time . . . Got a call from California. Your Mama says Merry Christmas, but she’s not coming . . . Your mama’s passed on. They’re doing an autopsy, but it looks like she was drinking and driving.”

But today, there was a different light in his eyes, a different tone in his voice.

Back inside the Café, I grab a plate of Frogmore Stew—shrimp, corn on the cob, potatoes, sausage, and onions—and head to the office to tally the day’s tips.

Meanwhile, Andy’s showing Russell how to make Jones’s signature Bubba’s Buttery Biscuits.

“Now, careful, boy. Treat the dough nice. Like you’re handling a woman.”

I pinch my brow and glance over my shoulder. Andy gives me a jolly wink.

A soft red burns across Russell’s smooth cheeks. Andy hit close to home, I reckon. The twenty-something dishwasher-slash-cook is a student at University of South Carolina’s Beaufort campus and more than likely has handled a woman. Or two. At least spent a good bit of time trying. Nevertheless, Andy’s reference has him flustered and embarrassed.

Okay, on to counting tips. Hmm . . . clearly I didn’t think this through. How can I eat corn on the cob and count money?

Since Mercy Bea leaves in a few minutes, I set my food aside and divvy up the money.

For some mysterious reason, the Frogmore Café customers don’t get the concept of 15 percent. Well, except the breakfast-club boys. They leave a hundred-dollar tip every year for my birthday and Christmas Eve.

I make two piles of money. One for Mercy Bea, one for me. Pretty meager. And she’s the mother of teen boys, and I . . . live at Dad’s. What the heck. I shove my dollars in with hers and slip the money into her envelope.

At that precise moment, the senior waitress peeks through the office door, breathless.